Fingers of Mist
Alec wheeled the great warhorse around again, alert and ready, but they’d timed it perfectly and had studied their quarry well.
The bloodthirsty crowd had been so distracted by his treatment of Sorcha—and their opportunity to pelt her with refuse—that they hadn’t noticed the swift work of his men rising against the guards and quickly taking their place on the section of the Royal Mile surrounding them.
Nor were the townspeople anything more than confused, at first, when he swept the witch onto his horse, since he only charged down the cobblestone road with her, directly towards the burning pyres. They hesitated in raising the alarm—just long enough.
The acrid smell of burning flesh assaulted his senses as he approached the base of Castle Hill. He could see Taran and his highlanders infiltrating the crowd, dressed as ragamuffins and ready to provide distractions.
Calmly, Alec trotted towards the guards, taking advantage of the path made by the villagers as they scrambled to get out of his way. He’d almost arrived at the point where he’d planned to make their escape, when Taran gave a shrill whistle, springing the plot early.
A swift glance back over his shoulder revealed to Alec the reason.
Hugh Cunningham pounded down the cobblestones towards him at a mad pace, his men streaming behind him.
Aye. ‘Twas time to ride.
Cries of alarm rang through the air.
Locking his arm firmly around Sorcha’s waist, Alec quickly scanned the chaos erupting around him. There was only one viable avenue of escape. He didn’t hesitate.
Digging his heel into the warhorse’s side, he charged forward, directly into the burning pyre.
The warhorse didn’t flinch. It hurtled straight into the flames as it had been trained to do.
A billowing cloud of smoke enveloped Alec, briefly obscuring his vision, but then he was through, but not without the one timeless moment that he caught a glimpse of a human head, its lips drawn back into a grotesque grimace, and the skeletal remains of a hand as it broke, dropping into the raging inferno. The moment seemed to last a lifetime.
Then they were free, thundering through an astonished, thinning crowd and past startled guards who were distracted by the cries of highlanders rushing at them from behind.
The wide, open road spread out before Alec, and the warhorse was strong and eager to run, easily outpacing the few men who still managed to pursue him.
Behind, he could hear Taran’s battle cry of “Tulloch Ard!” growing louder with each galloping stride of the warhorse’s powerful legs—and part of him could only wonder in awe that even a battle-trained charger couldn’t outmatch his untamed highlander of a cousin.
Alec refused to think of Sorcha. Not yet. Not beyond her immediate safety. She clung to him, her weak grip announcing she possessed little, if any, strength. But she was alive. Tightening his arm around her with a fierce protectiveness, he made for the dun-colored hills rising before him.
At the crest of the first, he paused long enough to gauge his pursuit, pleased to find them ever farther away than he’d hoped.
Taran was closing in behind, so, slowing his pace, he waited for his cousin to canter to his side.
“Fools,” the highlander snorted in open disgust, nodding at the horsemen in the distance, riding hard their way. “’Tis hopeless. Why do they even try?” His eyes dropped then, resting upon Sorcha’s white face and closed eyes, and his brows knit in concern.
Alec thinned his lips and pulled her even closer. He could feel her short, panting breath against his ribs as she clutched his plaid in a death-grip. Clearly, she was in shock. Bending down, he planted a kiss on the top of her head and turned his horse’s head north.
They galloped in silence, through the flocks of sheep dotting the moors, over the rocks and around bogs, leaving all signs of their pursuers far behind.
Finally, when the horses were in a lather, they reined near a burn, tumbling over moss-covered stones, and Alec dismounted, pulling Sorcha from the back of the warhorse and into his arms.
Exhaustion and horror marked her pale face.
Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Her cheekbones stood out sharply.
Bruises covered her neck and through the rips in her gown, he could see evidence of more torture that made his blood boil.
It took every ounce of his will to set aside thoughts of revenge—aye, there would be time enough for that later. Right now, she needed him.
She darted a quick glance at him before bowing her head. “I dinna believe you’re real,” she whispered as she stood swaying in his arms.
Her words stabbed his heart. Running a finger under her jaw, he gently tipped her chin up and forced her lavender-ringed eyes to meet his. “I’m real,” he promised.
“A figment of my fancy would say that,” she replied with a shudder.
“Then ye’ll be living in your fancy the remainder of your days, lass,” he murmured, drawing her close to press her head against his heart.
Her thin shoulders began to shake. He could feel her stomach convulse in silent sobs. “I canna think … nay, I canna think of it now,” she choked.
“Then dinna think at all,” he whispered hoarsely in her hair.
Taran stepped into view, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over Sorcha in concern. “We must ride,” he said, offering Alec a long Mackenzie hunting plaid. “Mayhap this will keep her warm.” He hesitated a moment and then handed him a silver flask of whiskey as well. “And this.”
Alec arched a brow. ‘Twasn’t the best of choices, considering her weakened condition.
But then, with the various injuries Hugh and his minions had inflicted, mayhap it would aid in dulling the pain of the ride.
She didn’t move as Alec swirled the long cloth around her shoulders, and she took only a few mouthfuls of the whiskey but as he swept her back into the saddle before him, she did appear slightly more alert.
The black warhorse stamped his feet, impatient to start as Taran mounted his brown mare and pointed to the thick haze of fog rolling their way.
“The mist is dropping over the moors,” he observed, raising a brow. “’Twill slow those down who follow, but ‘twill hinder our progress as well.”
Alec nodded and heaved a sigh.
They pushed on then, and with each passing minute, the mists crept forward to greet them.
At times, their going slowed to a walk. The air grew colder.
The sun sank on the horizon, and as darkness fell, they stumbled across a grove of hawthorns and oaks circling a half-ruined croft tucked on the edge of a small burn.
Taran reined his mount and stared at the building, perplexed. “I dinna recall this place,” he murmured.
Alec cast a quick glance in all directions, but there was little else to see other than white, swirling clouds of mist, writhing around them like a live thing.
“Let’s shelter here the night,” he suggested. “No doubt, the mists will lift in the morning.”
“Aye,” Taran agreed, distracted.
They found a section of the croft still usable, and the fallen, cracked beams provided more than enough wood for a fire. A short time later, the flames crackled, and a rabbit roasted on a spit.
Sorcha appeared on the verge of collapse.
She huddled next to Alec, silent, unmoving, caught in the mind-numbing horror of the recent events.
And at first, it took Alec some doing to coax her into eating, but after the first few bites, she revived to eat frantically, awakening from her stupor at last.
After exchanging a long look of rage with Taran, Alec quietly handed her his portion and watched as Taran rose to his feet, stalking over to do the same.
The highlander stared down at the lass for a moment, and then leaning over, planted a brotherly kiss on the top of her head before moving back to his position on the other side of the fire.
Silence reigned as Alec sat by her side, battling the urge to ride back to Edinburgh and disembowel Hugh Cunningham with his dirk.
At last, Sorcha took a deep, wavering breath. “Ye saved me,” she said, her voice sounding stronger than it had. “I … canna believe … aye, ye truly saved me.”
Both men looked at her, surprised.
“Nay, ye saved yourself, lass,” Alec replied in low voice filled with emotion. Capturing her hand, he pressed her fingers against his lips before adding, “We tried every possible way to free ye, but in the end, ‘twas your own dream that saved ye.”
Her brows knit in confusion. “My dream?” She was gaining strength by the minute. Her eyes appeared brighter and her skin less white.
Alec reached over to trace her cheek with his thumb, pleased at her rapid progress.
“We watched every move that priest made from the day we saw him,” he explained.
“And the king himself betrayed Hugh’s devious plan at your trial when he announced the priest would be leaving on the morrow’s tide.
We knew how and when ye’d be dragged down Castle Hill.
The rest— ‘twas rather simple, bribery, distraction, and the rest. And when we galloped by the prison with our men, Hugh was fool enough to believe we rode to the highlands, thinking we had a week afore ...” His voice trailed away.
He didn’t even want to utter any words that had to do with the topic of burning.
“Indeed,” Taran agreed with a curt nod. “Hugh made it much easier to position our men the length of High Street and for Alec to take the priest’s place.”
Alec nodded his head, slowly.
It had been surprisingly quick to overpower the priest and truss him like a pig. But now that he’d seen the handiwork the man had wrought upon Sorcha’s delicate form, he regretted he hadn’t spit him as well.
Sorcha stared at them, as if in disbelief.
Puzzled, he arched a querying brow.
Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. “Then … ye believed me,” she whispered, almost in wonder. “My dreams…”
Alec answered her by pulling her closer against his chest.